Pancakes
by Anna Marcelli Palmer
Summary: She refuses to eat them.


She is staring at me from the opposite side of the table.

Fidgeting, shifting nervously, rocking back and forth like a lost baby. There is a gaping hole right above the hem of her pink nightgown, around which pallid fingers are probing frantically, ripping it bigger and bigger. I can remember that gown. After we had woken up together for the very first time, in this apartment, on the very same bed that we now call ours, she had hurriedly moved out of the blankets and worn it over her nudity. Now it his hanging from those emaciated shoulders as though there is no person within.

"You still haven't touched your pancakes.", I mumble, lips barely moving. My wife has been bone-thin since the first day we met, but right now she looks surreally ill, a true woman-like scarecrow.

"I'm not hungry."

Pancakes. I hate those goddamn pancakes, and yet keep making them every single morning, hoping that she'll eat as much as a single bite. Still, everything remains the same. Doctor said, one cannot but wait until the patient cooperates. That was approximately a month ago.

"But they used to be your favorite...", I freeze, realizing how pathetic and unlike me this sounds. Almost like the monologue of a desperate father. Can't help it. See, the reason why we could never be parents was my bloody DNA, and thus she had promised to be my baby for the rest of our lives. Deep down, we both know she still is.

Shoulder blades nearly rip the skin apart as she shrugs.

"Well, now they are not."

I woke up at six in the motherfucking morning in order to prepare those atrocities.

They are untouched.

"But you remember what they told us at the hospital-you have to eat. C'mon Ames, they are getting cold."

Ames. _God_, do I hate that nickname. Who the hell needs a nickname of four letters to summarize a name comprised of three? Every time I call her otherwise, however, a sullen look mutates her face traits. Of course. "Rose" doesn't sound like something he would call her.

"I don't give a shit."

I take the large plate in my hands and briefly examine it. Don't remember it entering this house. A sappy shade of yellow, riddled with an army of stupid hearts and a ridiculous puppy that mocks, _LOVE IS EVERYTHING! _For a second, I stand immobile, staring at the capitalized phrase of sheer idiocy, then at the freakish puppy. The puppy stares at me back.

Dreadful.

Dunno why, but overwhelmed by a sudden pang of hatred towards this simple piece of painted, low-quality china, I hastily smash it against the nearest wall. Shards of glass and homemade cholesterol meet with the floor in a tight embrace. Suspecting this comprised quite the unusual spectacle, I turn around, checking Amy's reaction. There is just a small twitch, then she turns back to looking like the marble sculpture of some malnourished nymph.

The strange feeling of repressed loathing is extended, and now, staring at the woman with whom I exchanged vows of undying love, all that seems to come to mind is what a pathetic, selfish, psychotic, unloving bitch she is. Strange. Once upon a time, she would look like the most warm-hearted creature in the whole universe. Caring, cheerful. Maybe it was my fault; perhaps she loved me just like she loved everyone else in this world. Perhaps she was just very lonely.

But I truly fell for that smile, the scent of roses that would remain on my sheets, the tiny mark under her right cheek. I loved walking beside her, going places with her, fucking her. I felt wanted, even if briefly. Even persuaded myself that this was all a horrible, homicidal creation like me could ever hope for.

And thus, every newspaper got filled with the stupendous news: Shadow and Amy, who would've thought? A whole crowd of people I'd never seen in my life celebrated our marriage, cameras all over the place. GUN comrades that had always hated my very guts shaking hands with me, dryly giving their congratulations to the beautiful couple.

Still remember Rouge telling me not to do it.

Heck, should've known better. After all, colors aside, I do look an awful lot like him, and from the very first months it became clear that she had a strange, weakening effect on me. Broke walls built over decades of fear, shattered my defences. Soon, I caught myself finding it normal that she didn't want me to cross my arms, or "Hmph" when hearing something I didn't like, or calling her "Rose". Why not, after all? Good Faker look-alike has to behave like Faker, don't they?

Such a nice little unspoken arrangement. Me, having a stable job at the GUN, living the ideal life with the woman I wanted, and her, dancing around the house, doing chores all day like a crazed housewife living some stupid teenage fantasy. Oh, and cooking tons of chili dogs.

Sauce-filled, heavy-smelling, vomit-inducing, horrifyingly disgusting chili dogs.

That is, until Sonic died.

No one could've predicted. It was a day like all the rest. What does the weather look like the day a true hero leaves his last breath? I can only recall the rain plopping hard against the windowsill, the music programme on the radio station stopping abruptly, and then just the broken voice of a woman announcing the tragic loss.

Everyone can imagine the savior of the world falling heroically amidst a blood-soaked battlefield, during a gigantic clash between good and evil. Truth is, Station Square's most beloved citizen got hit by some inebriated fool driving a car, just a two minute walk away from his apartment. Broke many ribs, one of which penetrated his lung, getting deeper with every inhale of air. His heart stopped after thirty minutes of agony in the ambulance. During those, the doctors later reported, he was screaming he wanted to see a certain someone before he died.

It was not Tails.

In retrospect, I cannot decide who I am or should be truly mad at. Sonic, for hiding behind his "always with the wind" hokus-pokus? Amy, whom I saw mourn him like a heartbroken widow in front of the whole planet? Myself, for playing make-believe with someone that had belonged elsewhere, since the very start?

Suddenly, I feel dizzy, utterly confused. We are still in the kitchen, staring at each other, a decaying couple in a decaying household. I feel the urge to cry, but wasn't programmed to, so I just let her image flood my vision. The morning sun beams lazily through the curtains above the sink, coloring her figure in an unearthly chiaroscuro. For a moment, even as skeletal as she is right now, I find her vulnerable, and beautiful.

Like a baby.

An unfathomable grief overcomes every acre of my flesh, and I am mad at myself, because I cannot decide whether it is because my love is dying, or because she is doing it _in order to be with him again_, in a sick, supernatural, hair-triggering kind of way.

We are staring at each other. And, deeply immersed in my thoughts, I didn't notice that she stopped blinking.

"Amy...?"

Her head is leaning against the back of the chair. Her eyes seem fixated upon me, but as I stand up she is left gawking at the wall behind me in the ominous, blank way that implies that, whatever she might be looking at, it is not in this room.

"Amy...?"

I carefully pick her up, afraid she might fall and break to a thousand shards. Her body is still warm from the life that pumped through it some minutes ago.

"Amy...?"

I neatly position her in the middle of our bed, and close her eyes. For a second, everything feels normal again, and I fall on her corpse caressing her face, kissing her shoulders, whispering in her ear that it's time to wake up.

But she is not asleep and I don't know how to cry, so my voice cracks, and a desperate laughter flows out of my insides and turns to a scream that tears my mind in half.

And I encase her in my arms, hiding her in my embrace as though she is a lost child.

And I am rocking her back and forth, screaming that it will be okay, but it won't be okay, and we stand there, a motley duet of living and deceased, until the sun sets, and her limbs have become rigid without me noticing it.

Trudging like a stalled robot, I make my way to the phone, pick the receiver up. Trembling fingers form a number, but I immediately forget the person it belongs to. Frivolously tell the device that Rose is dead, then hang up.

Inspecting her lifeless form from this corner of the room, I smile.

.

.

.

.

.

.

For a moment, she looked a lot like Maria.


End file.
